


It Will be Enough

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Battle of Five Armies, Because Fili Deserves More, Canonical Character Death, Fix-It of Sorts, Funeral Scene, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Some feels, be warned, spoilers?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 04:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5116049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prince is where he thought he would be, in the long hallway behind the massive stone statues in the throne room, sitting on a bench and polishing a pair of swords. Bofur approaches and his boots are not quiet so Fíli lifts his head and smiles at him, so bright and fair it makes Bofur smile a little in return.</p><p>After the battle, they can talk about their future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Will be Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Depending on your depth of understanding of the extended edition of BoFA, this may come as a spoiler of sorts, but nothing is ever explicitly stated that could be considered an outright spoiler - I should hope everyone knows of the funeral scene, and the ending of this is set in that stage, though briefly. So you've been warned.
> 
> This is mostly stemming from my very hurt feelings on the whole third movie where Fili is made to be merely an afterthought. And then inspired from some bits in which Fili says something ship-worthy to Bofur. huu. Anyway, this is sad and it hurt to write, but there's some great bits that make me shake my fist in cute overload. 
> 
> Enjoy! Thanks for reading!

“Bofur? I… I will see you in the morning,” Bilbo says sternly, clearly trying to be reassuring, and it warms Bofur’s heart to see him try. 

“Goodbye, Bilbo,” he replies, letting himself smile a little before he turns to leave, knowing in his heart that Bilbo was doing what he must, and it would be wrong of him to hinder that. A part of him wanted to leave, too. He was sure he would not see the hobbit again. 

Bofur’s boots feel heavier than usual as he weaves along the cleared path through the rubble, but perhaps its only the mail he wears beneath the quilted tunic. He rubs his cold fingers together and then brings his glove to his chilled nose to warm it, too. Mahal, he was so tired, and weary. He swallow thickly, anxious in hopes that Bilbo would be alright outside the mountain; maybe the Men would take him in. Surely the Elves wouldn’t be too pleased to meet the thief who burgled thirteen Dwarves out of their dungeons from under their noses—what if the Elves caught him, Bofur frets. What would they do to him then? Bofur scrubs his face with worry. Bilbo was clever, he would figure something out, certainly. 

Bofur finds his brother sleeping in the guardhouse on the lower bunks. Ori is curled underneath a blanket elsewhere on another bunk, as well as Kíli and Òin. Bofur kneels next to Bombur and shakes his shoulder, a spike of worry stabbing into his gut that Bombur might not wake again. His unnatural sleep in Mirkwood rankled Bofur to his bones, and Bifur, too. He felt fear so much he could have tasted it, when Bombur could not be roused so they had to carry him. He never wanted that experience again. 

But Bombur snorts and blinks his eyes open, only to groan and roll over. It takes some convincing and a bit of nagging to get Bombur to sit up, but once he does Bofur fetches a few biscuits and a mug of tea from the supplies they had pilfered from the Master of Laketown, now burnt at the bottom of the lake. Bombur takes them gratefully. He eyes Bofur with a bit of waning irritation as he munches on a biscuit, taking the heavy coat off a nearby chair to wear in the chill. Bofur tells him goodnight before he leaves the guardhouse, and Bombur misses the worry in his face when he turns, lifting a hand in acknowledgement and heads towards the wall. Bofur hangs his head, a leaden weight settling in his stomach, so he goes to see where he thinks Fíli might be in hopes he could lift some of this darkness off his mind. 

The prince is where he thought he would be, in the long hallway behind the massive stone statues in the throne room, sitting on a bench and polishing a pair of swords. Bofur approaches and his boots are not quiet so Fíli lifts his head and smiles at him, so bright and fair it makes Bofur smile a little in return. Fíli must see something in his face that Bofur cannot hide because his eyes soften with concern, and Bofur internally scolds himself because he does not want Fíli to fret over him. Bofur casts his eyes to the hall floor instead of meeting his open expression, noting the scattered pebbles and faint coating of dust, and quietly sits next to Fíli on the bench. He feels the prince watching him but he doesn’t look, instead keeping his eyes forward to the massive statues, wringing his hands together though he doesn’t realize it. 

Fíli tries to go back to polishing the dual swords he had taken from the armory earlier, but finds he cannot focus when there was something so obviously on Bofur’s mind. He hadn’t seen him look so distraught, except in Mirkwood, but Bofur didn’t wear his worries well; he was chewing on his lip and pulling at the threads of his sleeve. He sets the swords away on the floor carefully before reaching out to put a hand on Bofur’s knee, sliding a little closer on the bench. 

“What is it?” he asks quietly, knowing that he must or Bofur wouldn’t speak at all, even if he wanted to talk. Bofur looks down at his hand and for the briefest of seconds he thinks he should take it away, but Bofur puts his hand over his before he does. Fíli nearly jumps with how cold his fingers are. Wordlessly he takes them both in his hands, and is relieved to see the smallest of smiles pull at Bofur’s mustache. “I was going to keep you company on the wall, but then I forgot. I’m sorry.” 

Bofur was glad he had forgotten, because it would have been so much harder to let Bilbo go. He wasn’t sure if Fíli would have understood. A knife twists in his heart then because he wasn’t sure if Fíli would understand at all, and he doubted if he should even mention it. Even though Thorin was in the grasp of the goldsickness, Fíli was still loyal to him, as she should be as his heir. Fíli knows of Thorin’s regard for the hobbit, as does everyone in the Company at this point (he gave him a mithril shirt, for Mahal’s sake!), so he must think of Bilbo’s retreat as a betrayal of sorts. Bofur didn’t see it that way, however, and he didn’t want to be the cause of a rift between them when they had only just begun… 

“That’s alright,” Bofur replies. Fíli lets go of his hands when he is properly satisfied in their warmth. “Thank you.”

Fíli smiles and sits shoulder to shoulder with him, looking out at the chamber beyond. The throne itself isn’t visible but the pathway to it cut across the vastness, the next landing a hundred feet below. They sit in the quiet for a while, a few indiscernible voices filtering down the hall from where the others of the Company were, but the silence between them is comfortable, besides the blatant worry in Bofur’s head. 

Bofur takes a deep breath before speaking. “Are… are you scared, Fíli? For tomorrow?” 

Fíli doesn’t respond immediately, only adjusts his feet so his ankles uncross, and Bofur sees his hand between them twitch. He hears Fíli sigh quietly. “Yes,” he says finally, soft like a whisper. “I am terrified.”

“You don’t seem like it,” Bofur observes gently, folding his hands loosely on his knees. Fíli’s fingers twitch a little closer. “I know you’re trained, and… and I’m not, but… are you used to battle? To death? To… to killing things? To bloodshed, to screams and smoke, and…,” he realizes he was talking over an answer Fíli would give, so he stops himself and waits. 

Fíli doesn’t answer right away, however, but takes one of Bofur’s hands slowly and hesitantly, like he was waiting for a denial, but Bofur grips his hand like it was an anchor. “I’m not used to any of this, Bofur,” Fíli admits almost sadly, and Bofur is reminded of how young he really was. It was easy to forget when he was so brave and quiet. “I’ve killed things, aye, but… never Elves. Never Men. It’s always been orcs, who sack villages and slaughter children, they deserve death. But them… outside the walls, they haven’t done anything to warrant an end. They want our gold, aye, and demanding it like they have with armies at their backs and their arrows notched, they’re right arses, but… it’s not worth going to war over. And Dáin’s men will not rival their numbers, it’ll be a slaughter if something isn’t done.” 

Bofur purses his lips and tries to quell his fears from Fíli’s affirmations about the battle tomorrow, but their fingers intertwined is a comfort. He was also surprised at Fíli’s answer because he didn’t expect him to doubt Thorin’s decision to wage a war with the Elves and Men, despite their folly in how they went about demanding payment. 

Fíli continues. “The Men especially need gold from us, after Smaug destroyed their town and their lives. They need it to rebuild Dale, rebuild their homes. We… we brought them only misfortune, it’s true. Thranduil only wants those blasted gems, who cares, it doesn’t deserve battle, death… and Thorin, he’s…,” Fíli takes a nervous breath, his fingers twitching anxiously between Bofur’s as he glances around, picking his words carefully. “He’s mind sick. He can’t think clearly, at the moment.” 

“I don’t know if he’ll come around,” Bofur says before thinking and immediately starts to make repairs but he sees Fíli nod next to him. He relaxes a little and his heart becomes a bit lighter with his understanding. He takes a shaky breath before continuing. “I’m… I’m so scared, Fíli. I can’t blame Bilbo for wanting to leave, he knows as well as I that tomorrow we face a certain doom,” he swallows thickly, feeling himself shiver despite the warmth in their closeness, then he realizes what he has said and looks to Fíli. 

Fíli is looking at him, his brows creased in shock and sadness, his eyes ever deep in their emotion, dark blue in the lack of proper light. “Bilbo… he’s left?” 

The words are stuck in Bofur’s throat so he only nods, wondering if Fíli would reprimand him for allowing the burglar to escape when they needed him to find the Arkenstone. Bofur squeezes his eyes closed, wondering if this was the last chance he would have to hold Fíli’s hand. 

The rebuke doesn’t come. Fíli slackens against the bench and his shoulder, and his hand squeezes his a little tighter. “I cannot blame him. After what Thorin did to him on the wall today, I… I would be afraid as well. I am afraid.” 

The relief Bofur feel is palpable, he could almost sing with it, if it wouldn’t be a sad lament. He still trembles in his boots. “I have a feeling he knows what kind of evil the battle will bring. I do. Not all of us will make it. I’ve never been so rankled with fright, not even when Bombur fell into the river. Not all of us are battle-hardened, or even trained properly, I’ve never fought anythin’ more than goblins! I’ve never been to battle, never really killed, never fought for my life, been covered in blood, seen someone’s insides, heard their screams, felt what it means to actually kill—” 

Bofur doesn’t realize he is crying until Fíli uses his free hand to brush his cheeks, his face crumpled with worry, and only then does Bofur lose his will. He breaks into tears and Fíli reaches his arms around him and pulls him close, Bofur buries his face into his neck and lets himself weep quietly. Fíli clutches at his tunic and runs his hand over the thickness, and though Bofur hardly feels it through the mail it’s a soothing gesture. He stops his tears shortly because he feels like the biggest fool, but when he pulls away to sniffle and scrub his eyes, Fíli is nothing but infinitely understanding. He moves his arms so he can take Bofur’s face in his warm, calloused hands, making Bofur look at him. 

“Hey,” he says in a steady voice that could calm even the angriest Dwarf. “We’ll make it. We will. We’ll see this through and Erebor restored, I promise you.” 

“Fíli…,” Bofur swallows, starting to shake his head. 

“No, listen to me,” Fíli stops him with the seriousness of his tone, but his hands remain gentle on him, fingers stroking the growing beard on his jaw. “You will live, as well as Bifur and Bombur and everyone else. I can’t guarantee you’ll always be safe, but I can protect you. And I will. Bofur, I…,” Fíli catches himself from following that path, swallows his words and tries to smile without the ever-present worry. “It’ll be alright. I know it.”

“Do you?” Bofur whispers, question not one out of doubt or mistrust, but one all encompassing, seeking a definite answer for all the loose ends in regards to the battle, Erebor, their companions, and them. Fíli drops his hands to Bofur’s shoulders, his eyes wandering his face, until he finally nods, assured in his answer. 

“Yes,” he reaffirms. “I want you, Bofur, nothing can change my mind. After the battle, when Erebor is restored, we can—”

Before he can continue, Bofur surges forward urgently to kiss Fíli hard and deep. He doesn’t want to hear about the what-if’s, and doesn’t want to put his heart into future plans until the battle is definitely over and they’re both alive. He doesn’t want to hope for anything that might not be. He doesn’t want to promise the swelling, growing love in his heart to be anything more than it is now, because now it is perfect, Fíli is perfect, and he is happy to live with how it is at this moment. He cannot bear to hear Fíli’s promises, knowing how badly he would want them, only for the battle to claim one or both of them. He cannot bear it. 

So he kisses Fíli, deeper than any of the kisses they had shared before, sliding his hands into his blond hair as the prince folds his arms around his waist and pulls him closer. He kisses him so intently he almost forgets to breathe, searching his mouth for breath even as his own is stolen. Fíli tastes like pipeweed and wine, and Bofur imprints it onto his memory, revels in the shape of his lips on his, the scrape of his beard on his jaw. He softy pulls Fíli’s hair on accident and is pleased to learn it causes a reedy, breathy moan from him, and he swallows it to search for more. Distantly he feels his hat being knocked off his head as Fíli’s hands brush away his hair, sliding his hands over his ears and around his head, stroking reverent fingers over his braids, cradling him closer. A warmth like Bofur’s never felt courses through him, marveling in all these delights, and he squeezes his eyes against the tears it causes. This was too good to be true, he knows, but he hangs on a few minutes longer. 

The need to breathe makes him turn his head away after a time, resting his forehead against Fíli’s as they cling to each other in their closeness and comfort. 

“I look forward to it,” Bofur says, and he means it. The wide, earnest smile Fíli gives him, deepening his dimples ever further, lights Bofur’s heart to make it flutter. 

After the battle, they can talk about their future. 

 

\-------

 

They did not get their chance to talk after the battle because after all was finished and the dust settled, Fíli had died. 

It was the saddest and worst sort of discovery, because Fíli had been found last, after Kíli and Thorin had been collected and brought to the triage center in the valley, covered in a thin layer of snow and his blood thinly frozen amongst the rubble and ice. His eyes were still open. It felt like Bofur’s heart had been taken out through his ribs and squeezed until it had burst, Fíli so utterly forgotten in his valor and death.

It had been only him to search frantically on the battlements of Ravenhill, through its mess of rubble and halls and corpses. His wrath upon the others, his Company and friends and the Elven medics, was unlike anything Bofur had ever done in his life. Fíli deserved so much more than the second thoughts he had been subjected to and endured since Laketown, deserved so much more respect than anyone had ever given him. He deserved so much more. 

Bofur had been the one to clean and fix Fíli’s hair for the funeral, the only chance he would have to do so, and he had wept heavy tears for the lost opportunities they would have had. If they had been afforded such luck, Bofur would have done his hair a thousand times, would have allowed Fíli to do his, but now it was an impossibility. He cried because he _knew_ , deep within himself, that this would happen, and yet wished he had allowed Fíli to tell him his promises, maybe so he would have something to imagine now in this darker reality. Now, without anything to fantasize, Bofur wasn’t sure what could have been. He wept for that, too. 

By the time Fíli, Thorin and Kíli had been suited in their funerary armor, Bofur had wept a hundred times, and tears were not always shed. Anger flared in him again when Fíli was only briefly mentioned, even as Thorin’s heir, but soon it faded to a dull ache in his chest. The light of the candles made the eldest prince impossibly beautiful in his sleep, and it hit Bofur like an arrow in the heart that he never told him how breathtaking he really was.

“I never told you a lot of things, I’m afraid,” Bofur says to Fíli’s corpse, because it wasn’t him, not really. Fíli would blink those clear blue eyes at him and ask him what he means, because he was had wanted to know the depths of Bofur’s thoughts and feelings always, sometimes to the point of pestering. Bofur would miss that. 

While the others mourned over Thorin and Kíli, in which he would do as well in his own time, he was the only one by Fíli’s side. He didn’t really want to, but a voice in the back of his mind convinced him anyway, to lift a hand and finger the braid by Fíli’s temple. He had wanted to put his own style to it but knew he didn’t have the permission or the right, so it was Fíli’s basic three plait braid, but it was perfect. 

“I was never able to tell you how much I loved you,” Bofur whispers thickly, tears dried in his eyes but it still felt like he was crying. “Words always got stuck in my throat.” 

It was Fíli who began the… tryst between them, on the shores of the lake, but Bofur had loved him before then, before Mirkwood, before Beorn’s… he wasn’t sure when it began. It felt like he had always loved him, in hindsight. It was hard not to. Fíli was always quiet, pensive, probably the reason he was so easily overlooked, but Bofur knew of his bravery, his wild thoughts, his intellect. He was so much more than the due he was given in his death, and the thought was so irrevocably sad to him. Not even in his death was Fíli afforded the honor he earned and deserved. 

“I don’t know how I can change it, Fíli, I don’t know if I can,” he answers himself aloud, feeling his throat constrict. “But I will. I promise you I will. It’s the least I can do.” _Will it be enough?_

_…_

_I will make it enough._

Summoning more courage than he felt he had, Bofur closes his eyes and kisses the knuckles that close around Fíli’s sword, knowing in his heart that nothing or anyone could replace the holes in his heart, and knowing that nothing should. Fíli was exceptional. 

He steels himself, ready to speak the words and deeds Fíli never could now, because he deserves to be recognized as the hero he was, and Bofur would make it known. It will be enough.


End file.
